


expectation

by annundriel



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-08
Updated: 2016-01-08
Packaged: 2018-05-12 13:06:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5667130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annundriel/pseuds/annundriel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The night before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	expectation

Dorian stretches back in his seat at the Herald's Rest, the fingers of one hand wrapped around the opposing wrist above his head, his back arched. He's aware of how he looks; that's why he does it, though the flutter of his eyelashes and the half-sighed moan that slips through his lips are involuntary. Eyes are on him; they have been for half the evening at least, maybe more. Several pairs, but only one he's really interested in, heavy-lidded and dark across the table. It follows him as he stretches, tracking his movement, and Dorian wiggles the fingers of his free hand--extending and curling--before he lowers his arms and settles back in his chair.

He’s too warm, and blames the closeness of the tavern, the blaze of the fire, the beer in his veins, and the Bull. The Bull, whose hands dwarf the tankard of mead he holds, whose shoulders block out the rest of the tavern, whose smile is a little too knowing here and there and everywhere they happen to go, the Bull at Dorian’s back, his side. They fight together--against a common enemy or against each other. They could fuck, Dorian thinks, and it would be just as invigorating.

 _You’re inclined to do the forbidden_ , he’d said. _My door’s always open_ , he’d said.

Furious at the time, startled and suddenly--shockingly--turned on, Dorian had spluttered, denial springing from his lips easily. He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it since then, or been able to deny that he’d thought about it before when the Bull’s hands had steadied him in the field, in the tavern, in the sparring ring.

He feels the Bull’s gaze now, a caress that skims over the ridge of Dorian’s collarbones, lingering at the hollow of his throat before moving back up to catch at his bottom lip, newly released from between his teeth. The corner of the Bull’s mouth quirks, and Dorian just catches it before it’s hidden behind his tankard. His lips shine with drink when he lowers it again, the pink end of his tongue slipping out and across quickly. Dorian shivers, imagining that tongue lapping and flickering in turn, those lips sucking marks his robes will hide the next day. Maker, but he’d press his fingers to those marks and remember the way the Bull fucked him, feel--finally--satisfied.

There’s a voice at the back of his head Dorian ignores as he reaches for his beer, a small voice that suggests maybe he wouldn’t be satisfied, maybe he’d need more than the one night romp the Bull has alluded to in the past. Watching the Bull turn and joke with Krem, the muscles of his chest jumping as he throws his head back and laughs, Dorian suspects the voice might be right, though he refuses to think about it more, focusing instead on the bitterness of the beer on his tongue, the slide of it down his throat. It burns in the best way possible and, watching Bull, he can’t help but think of the burn of other things, of muscles put to good use, bodies used.

He has heard things about the Iron Bull, from others as well as from the man himself. He has heard things that make him curious, that make him reach for himself in the small hours of the night, hand slipping between the coverlet and his belly, fingers gripping his cock as he gives himself to--he tells himself later--vague thoughts of large men.

Large, horned men.

Dorian’s own hands are familiar and clever and he can use them for a great many things, but in the middle of the night in the privacy of his bed, Dorian regrets they are not larger. And, in the light of day, he denies what he really wants. Just as he’ll deny his preference for the very beer wetting his lips this evening. But he knows; in his bones, he knows.

The Bull knows, too. At least, he suspects.

Dorian is increasingly all right with this.

The Bull’s drink is on the table, and the Bull’s face is turned away, gaze elsewhere as he talks with his men. Beneath the table, his foot is pressed against Dorian’s, the outer length of it--unbelievably long; Dorian’s heart pounds--aligns itself to the inner curve of Dorian’s. It could be an accident; the Bull’s legs are long, and he has no concept of personal space when it doesn’t suit him. But the way his fingers tap on the table, the way his eye slides back just so, the way his knee nudges Dorian’s own; all of it speaks to purpose, to intent, and Dorian knows he’s going to be caught.

He can’t wait.


End file.
